Out There
by triquetral
Summary: Written for horror-meme. Prompt: Jo - Nobody's ever been scratched by a Hellhound before without being finished off seconds later. Spoilery through 5x10.


**A/N: Written for the horror-meme. **

**Prompt: Jo - Nobody's ever been scratched by a Hellhound before without being finished off seconds later.**

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As it turns out, what isn't written in the books could fill books, and she gets a crash course in Hellhounds 101 - what it really means when they have your scent.

Jo remembers things in flashes. Dean shoved to the ground. The recoil of the shotgun against her shoulder. Claws tearing at her flesh. Being pressed close to Dean's chest. She probably should have slept with him while she had the chance.

What she remembers most is the putrid inhalation of breath into an invisible snout, a gust of sulfur that she swears carries a bit of her soul away with it.

It can smell her now, sense her and she can feel the bitch right back. Like part of her is already being digested.

Maybe part of her is. Her guts in its guts.

Something strolls past the window. _Things._

Sam shakes his head. "There's nothing out there."

"I know what I goddamn saw, alright?! Help me up."

Dean and her mom half-carry her over to the window, her legs dragging uselessly against the dirty linoleum. She can feel her intestines pushing through the wound in her side, feel them struggling against the ACE bandage. She pukes bile and blood.

The four of them peer through a small gap in the plywood. The streets aren't empty anymore. Even to Sam's eyes.

Men are wandering forward, no women, no children.

"Their faces?! The _hell_ happened to their faces?!" Yeah, she kind of freaks a little.

Her mom pushes her hair out of her eyes, brushes a thumb against her cheekbone, "Baby, what do you mean?"

Jo wills herself to not pull away, but her mother's face morphing into something disgusting and strange, gray and cadaverous. For a moment all she can smell is gangrene and grave dirt, sulfur-cooked earthworms. Dog breath, still trying to take her in.

It's Dean who squeezes her hand reassuringly, asks "Does it look like giant rotting evil is stuck in a smaller, fresher wrapper?"

"Yeah." It takes her a moment to realize he's talking about the people outside, not her mom - who is back to smelling of cordite, tequila and _home_.

Dean and Sam share a long look.

She's about to say that just 'cause she's on her_ goddamn deathbed_ does not make this the time to leave her out of the loop, but Dean explains before she can get too testy.

"You're seeing demons, what they really look like. Those people are possessed."

"You're welcome for the heads up." She offers up a small grin, trembles a little, tries not to look again at the true face of evil.

Somewhere out there a hellhound is sniffing her out. She can feel it, circling around the blood she left on the street, lapping it up greedily with a rough tongue. It desperately wants the rest of the meal. How she knows this, she can't say. She wishes she didn't.

She looks out again. "Reapers sure like suits, huh?"

Three heads turn toward her, but none of them say a word. Ellen stifles a sob.

One of the strange-looking beings floats right by the window, his hooked nose inches away from the glass when he stops short. He stares right at Jo, reaching out his liver-spotted hand slightly, as if in a question to her.

_Do you want me to take you now?_

Her answer is no, not yet. And she's sure it knows that, but it still stands there with ever-widening brown eyes, kind eyes - keeps his arm outstretched.

Jo pulls back from the window, shaking her head, nearly falling when she doesn't remember her lower body isn't much good to her. There is warmth oozing down her leg and for a moment she wonders if she's pissed herself like a scared little kid. When she looks down she sees more blood and realizes - no, it's her insides trying to get outside. If there were a reason to piss yourself, that probably qualifies.

"Jo, what'd you see?" Dean asks. He grabs a waxing shammy off of the automotive supply rack and presses it gently to her side.

She steels her voice, hisses in pain, tries not to remember that Death has kind eyes. "Nothing."

"Jo.." Dean begins, obviously not buying her bullshit.

Her soul shudders - the hound just found more of her blood, is gnawing at the gravel to get a taste of her, crunching pavement to bits in its razor-toothed maw. She doesn't want to know this. The rest of her quivers too. She kind of wishes she'd just go into shock already.

"_Jo-_" Dean begins again, adjusting his grip on her when his hand slides on her clammy skin. Something in his voice sounds very close to breaking.

"-C'mon," she interrupts. She squeezes his shoulder, wonders idly if it was the one her mother told her was marked by Heaven. "Set me down. Time to build a bomb."

Out there, a reaper longs to carry her back to her father.

Out there, evil Lassie is salivating at the prospect of chomping her in half.

In here, there's still work to do.

And she's running out of time.


End file.
